The Rook

Written September 27, 2007, with apologies to Edgar Allan Poe.

As we sat down at the table, serviced by my old maid, Mable
Moving pieces into places for a game we’d played before,
He began to preen his feathers, dampened by the rainy weathers,
Weathers he’d tracked onto my carpet when he came in through the door
I complained, but no one heard me, for the bird chose to ignore
Quoth the rook, then, “Man, I’m sore.”

Once he moved his first black horseman, I could see his game’s true source, man,
It was nothing short of brilliant, for a bird, but nothing more
I took his knight, head-on, in battle, knocked that prick out of his saddle,
Then laughed because the bird had tried this shit a thousand times before
It was good he didn’t gamble, or he’d lose the whole damned store
Quoth the rook, then, “What a bore.”

I could see he wasn’t able to tame my stallion’s stable
When he moved his leading bishop right into my castle’s boudoir
It might be a battle royal, had this bird the wits to toil
Over his thoughts before he made a move that left his ship ashore,
But his brain was swimming in a sea of lager-y amour
Quoth the rook, then, “You got more?”

Mable poured us both fresh glasses, and he made a couple passes
But Mable is a shrewd old bat with experience galore
She clipped his wings quite nicely, ‘though she had to do it thricely,
And he should have let her walk away, but he called her a whore
So she whacked him on his feathered head with my old rowing oar
Quoth the rook, then, nothing more

“What should we do with the body?” I asked, sipping on a toddy
“We could chop him up in pieces to bury ‘neath the hardwood floor?”
But Mable had imagination, and a gift for taste sensation,
And a wicked side I swear to God I’d never seen before
So we set the bird to boiling ’til the fresh rook soup did pour
Rook’s in check, now, evermore.